The Good Plan

‘I feel like I can peel off my skin and, I don’t know,’ he says, his tone void of emotion as streams of tears disperse into his greying stubble. ‘Maybe something beneath there can be free.’

Imagination

I’ve always had a wild imagination. When we were very young, my brother and I used to have story time - something I initiated and he very much looked forward to. I’d tell stories about the adventures of three young boys, who would encounter all sorts of trepidations while out bushwhacking. They were simple boys, uncomplicated, with three archetypical personalities; the scared one, the clever one, and the brave one. Jannie, Pieter and Frikkie, or something like that. My brother was too young to read, so I would read from the red NeverEnding Story sized hardcover book on my parents’ bookshelf. Funny how he never asked to see pictures. Could he have known that it wasn’t a story book, but a DIY book on home renovation? Surely, he must have flipped through the pages on his own at some point. If he’d done so, he sure was pretty good at pretending to be non the wiser.

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Someone else’s turn

I recently received a rejection for a flash anthology submission, one I’d had the privilege of being published in last year. Here’s the truth: there’s no disappointment here. It’s someone else’s turn now. And it’s as simple as that.

The Good Plan came to be one evening while we were sitting around the kitchen table. My husband said something which struck me square in the heart chakra. I wrote down his words verbatim on a serviette and later, concocted this bite-sized serving of fiction.

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The Good Plan

Nina’s throat aches as her heart tries to beat its way to her mouth, and skid across her red-wine-laced tongue, to wrap itself around her husband’s sobbing face. Perhaps her racing pulse is a symptom of perimenopause; the untimely guest that comes to stay rent-free at some point after forty. Or maybe it’s just anxiety induced by the arrival of yet another Christmas. Either that or she’s drunk. With her elbow resting on the kitchen table and hand clasped firmly around her neck, she studies him sitting across from her.

Ben looks defeated, visibly deflating and leaking like a punctured water balloon. The year has reached its end and so has he. Turns out his promotion isn’t worth its weight in gold. A better salary comes with great responsibility, a heavy workload, and unbearable amounts of bullshit. This good pay check has claimed its toll.

‘I feel like I can peel off my skin and, I don’t know,’ he says, his tone void of emotion as streams of tears disperse into his greying stubble. ‘Maybe something beneath there can be free.’

Ben never cries. Ben doesn’t use the word free, unless in concurrence with the words parking or beer. Unlike the idealistic Nina, Ben doesn’t engage in flights of fancy. Nina uses phrases like invoking the divine feminine. She dabbles in herbology, and traverses barefoot through the pinewoods of Stellenbosch on weekends with her pack, hugging trees and howling at the moon. The working man doesn’t have an aptitude for whimsy. Ben has no tribe. Clear quartz crystals and burnt sage can’t fix this man’s problems. Nina wants to help. She’s good with making things better, like fixing buttons on shirts, or mending children’s ouchies, but this is going to take a helluva lot more than needle and thread and homebrewed tinctures. None of Nina’s tasks as a homemaker – often demanding overtime well into the witching hours of the night – makes money. No matter how skilled she is at keeping house and raising babies, she’s incapable of conceiving of a reprieve for her husband’s plight.

‘Let’s apply for the First Expats Initiative,’ she says excitedly, as if the idea is new. ‘There are no nine-to-five desk jobs on Mars.’

‘Ag, no, not this again,’ says Ben, sighing defeatedly. ‘And then what? All of our problems will magically disappear?’

‘Yes!’ she says, unflinching. ‘It literally would.’

‘And what about the kids? I don’t think people with families qualify.’

‘Oh, but they do. Says so on the website.’

A spark of hope ignites in Ben’s sky-blue irises. Just the thought of quitting his job without notice induces an unadulterated sense of satisfaction.

‘Do you really think we could do it?’

‘Yes, absolutely.’

Ben knows she would. Nina knows he never will.

One corner of his mouth curls upward. ‘You’re nuts. But I love you.’

‘I know,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘I love you too.’

‘So,’ he says as he dries his cheeks with one of her crochet doilies. ‘What’s for supper?’

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Aside from Ben’s words, the story is fictional. Except for the crochet doilies. Those are real.

Till next time. Bye for now.